Barely Breathing
by ashmathsvhs
Summary: Your fingers dig into your jeans; you ignore the pain in your knuckles that follows. Something inside you hurts much more, and you don't think it will ever go away. The sun and crying have drained you but you can't let yourself fall asleep, because then you'll have to face the nightmares that have been haunting you for three months. The nightmares of him.


Your fingers are loose around the neck of the bottle that's keeping you company tonight. The same bottle that will be with you tomorrow, and the next day. If you make it that long, you muse. It's chilly outside, your nose is numb and pink, but the rest of your body is warm, and has a tingle to it. You like it, you like being able to feel something for once. It's nicer than the dullness that surrounds you when you're sober. But really, when are you ever sober, you think.

If you look down you would see rocks, and water, about fifty feet below where you drunkenly sway. You're too dizzy to look down though, everything is spinning. You know if you do look down, you'll lose your balance and fall. Isn't that why you come up here though? To try and gather up the courage to jump? You shake your head around a little, suddenly tired of all the thinking. Your head pounds with it. "Stop!" You want to scream, but you don't, instead you just take another drink of the harsh liquid.

You aren't really sure how long you've been here; you just know it was long enough for Peyton to come looking for you. It doesn't surprise you that she found you either. After all this used to be 'yours and his' spot. It's also where they found you every night for a week after the accident. You just recently started coming back here. So no, it doesn't surprise you when she finds you. Or when she walks over to you, and gently lays her hand on your shoulder.

"Brooke, come on lets go home." You notice that voice she's using. It's the same voice people use when they're trying to reason with a child or convince a crazy person. You think the latter is more you.

"No. I'm staying." You can hear the slur to your words, but you're also too drunk to really care.

"Don't make this into a fight, please. It's cold out here and you need to come home."

"Don't tell me what I need! You aren't my mom, Peyton; I'll go home when I feel like it." You know you're being a bitch; you just can't bring yourself to care.

"I know this is hard, okay? I get it, I'm just—"

"You know how it feels? Bullshit. You don't understand one thing I'm going through. No one does." You take a long drink from the sweating bottle and look bitterly back at Peyton.

"God how long are you going to keep doing this to yourself? I can't try to help you get over it if you won't help yourself!"

"Get over it? I'm never going to get over it! You just don't just get over something like that, something like him." You make your way to the edge of the drop off and look down. How long, how far until the bottom you contemplate. What if I jump right now? Who would care, you think. Peyton would, maybe a few other friends, and your parents (probably not though). You move your right foot over the cliff. Dangling it there.

"Stop it!" Peyton screams at you. She's scared of you, what you're capable of. You know this, but you can't bring yourself to really care.

Maybe one day you'll be better, and you'll thank Peyton for all she did for you. But really you know you won't ever be better. So you won't ever get to thank her for what she did, what she tried to do. To humor her you move your foot back to the ground, and take a few steps back away from the edge.

"Just leave, Peyton. You aren't helping me by being here. You're just making it worse on yourself."

"You know you can sit up here and drink yourself to death, Brooke. I just want you to remember, though, that you aren't the only one who lost someone that day. You aren't the only person it affected. How about his best friends or his mom? Those people are hurting too – probably more than you."

Your fingers dig into your jeans; you ignore the pain in your knuckles that follows. Something inside you hurts much more, and you don't think it will ever go away. The sun and crying have drained you but you can't let yourself fall asleep, because then you'll have to face the nightmares that have been haunting you for three months. Sometimes, you wish you were more like Peyton. She's stronger than you will ever be. She doesn't fall easily in love, and you envy that. After all, it's what got you into this mess in the first place. As soon as you think that, though, you try to deny it, you silently whisper an apology to a person who isn't there, who hasn't been there for a while. Because you really aren't sorry for loving him, you're sorry you didn't show it. You take the last swig from the bottle then toss it behind you into the ocean. You wait for the crash, but all you hear is the sound of your heavy breathing. Everything around you feels far away. You feel sick.

"Just go, please. I just want to be alone." You're practically begging her now. You want her to understand that you want to be by yourself. Because sometimes when you're alone and drunk, he comes to you. You get to see his delicate face or hear his soft voice for a second. Even though it's not very long, you cherish it, and you try to make it happen as often as possible.

"Fine, I'll leave, but if you aren't home by nine I'm coming back up here. And you will go home with me. Please don't do anything stupid."

You're so grateful in that moment, but you don't say anything. It really wouldn't be fitting for the type of friendship you have with Peyton. Instead, you sit down and put your legs over the drop off. You start to swing them out, and then pull them back in. You don't start crying until you know Peyton is completely out of range. At first, the tears are just little pools in your

eyes. Then suddenly you're sobbing, and your body is shaking with them. You miss him so much in that moment. You scream out a cry. It sounds pitiful, and you think if he was here he would look at you and shake his head. He'd whisper under his breath, "You're crazy Brooke, but I like crazy." Then he'd flash you that crooked smile that you grew to adore.

You miss him too much, you just want to jump and for this to all be over. You try to convince yourself that no one would miss you, and that no one would care if you died today. Deep down you know that they would. You think that's what keeps holding you back, that's what is keeping your feet planted to the ground. The fear of disappointing your friends again, of leaving them here missing another person.

You try and remember the words he said to you the last time he came to you in a drunken haze. It's hard though, all you can get are bits and pieces. All you can recall right now is his bright green eyes, his dark hair, and the little scar above his left eyebrow. You shut your eyes quickly, hold them like that. You're trying to erase his image. It doesn't work. He's still there behind your eyes in your memories, and he'll probably never leave.

It's an hour until nine, you're sobering up and you decide to head back to Peyton. After all, she'll send the search team if you don't. You're passing the park, which is about three blocks from the house, when you remember what he said to you the last time you saw him, after you had been drinking. 'Whenever you feel alone, know that I'm watching you. That I'm waiting on you. I know you love me, and we'll be together one day. Just remember I'm here.'

That's not true though. You realize this at the front door, as you're turning the knob. You realize that you're alone. And the only thing here for you is your bottles, your drinks. He's gone and not coming back. You're all alone.


End file.
